


The End Of May

by satanwithjournals



Category: Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Multi, Murder, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, genius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satanwithjournals/pseuds/satanwithjournals
Summary: 1 in 25 people is a sociopath. That is about 4 percent of the population. According to statistics 3 percent of those are male.One percent is female.All rights reserved. ©satanwithjournals





	1. Prolouge

The lights went out, the screams and the cries of the crowd grew louder. Adrenaline rushed through his body, but he was too exhausted to even smile. Somebody of his crew pushed him off the stage, he knew he had to run before they could catch him outside of the building. While running he unbuttoned his dress shirt underneath his suit-jacket. A water-bottle found its way to his hands, then to his mouth. He was almost glad so many people were holding onto him; this way he wouldn't fall. His throat felt hoarse from all the singing. Sweat was running down his back, finally he made it out and then into the car with black-tinted windows. He fell back into the leather seats when the SUV abruptly drove off.

He sighed, sinking into the cool seats. If you asked him Harry would say it was a great day. Not because it necessarily was one, but because it was expected of him to say. Expected from managers, fans and last but not least himself. He had to be happy, not just positive. Harry had to be better, greater than the last time he performed. He couldn't disappoint and he couldn't frown. He had friends, he had fans, he had music and even money. Everything he dreamed about when he was still an average quirky kid. What was there not to be smiling about?

But even though he had all this, he couldn't bring himself to be genuinely happy. Was this really what a day should feel like? Always high when surrounded by people, everything crashing down when alone? It felt like he already lived through so much at this young age, could there be even more? He doubted it. He was unsatisfied with life and he was mad at himself for being so ungrateful with what he has been given. He was living the dream, but all he really wanted was to wake up.

He wanted to be able to have bad days, he wanted to be able to slack off at work sometimes and most importantly he wanted to have his own mind for once. But every move he made was watched over, so much gossip over so little things. Newspapers turning and twisting his words, making him into something he wasn't.

He ran his hands down his face and sighed again. Soon the dark trees outside transformed into white clouds and instead of driving he was flying. Days melted together like hot candy.

'Love. All the love.' Those words ran through his brain; stuck in his head. He was draining himself of it. He was giving so much of it; why didn't he receive any back?

His fans claimed to love him and sure, they did. But they weren't able to hold him when he was sobbing over a stupid romance movie or kiss his forehead when he did something great. There was no smell of coffee and the clutter of plates when he woke up in the morning, instead photographers were waiting outside his front door.

Nobody told him that the side-effects of being a worldwide superstar include so much loneliness and fakeness. No one informed him that 'star' was just another word for 'puppet'.

'All the fucking love.' Harry thought and hoped one day it would be true again.


	2. High-Functioning Sociopaths

(Source: https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/high-functioning-sociopath#symptoms)

\- Superior intelligence.  
Those who are high functioning are often incredibly smart, with very high IQs which can help them read, manipulate, and control scenarios.

\- Lack of empathy.  
People with ASPD don't comprehend other people's emotions. Therefore, they don't appreciate or anticipate the consequences of their actions.

-Calculating behaviors. People with this type of sociopathy are driven and determined. A strong self-love (narcissism) and sense of grandiosity may be their catalyst.

-Secretive tendencies.  
High-functioning individuals may keep everything close to the vest. They rarely reveal private information or thoughts unless it's to manipulate another person.

-Charm.  
Despite generally not enjoying being around people, a high-functioning person displays impeccable social skills.

-Sensitivity.  
People with high-functioning ASPD can be defensive. They may be quick to anger when they perceive they don't have someone's approval. That's because they often feed off admiration from others.

-Addictive behaviours.  
It's not uncommon for a person with a high-functioning personality disorder to experience addiction. Compulsive behaviors and reactions can lead to issues with gambling, sex, alcohol, and drugs.

________________________________________________________

These traits are not the same for every sociopath, but will give you a general idea. Imagine it as a sound mixer. Some levers are turned up completely, others only half or less.

Some sociopaths are even capable of forming attachments to an individual or a group.

My knowledge to this topic comes from thorough research, talking with experts and from personal experience.


	3. Home

There he stood. Clean black expensive shoes, firmly standing on the carpet in front of our house. No flowery Gucci-suit I had often seen him wearing in pictures. He almost looked normal in this environment. (He was n-o-r-m-a-l; there did not seem to be an obvious abnormality from the average human, but his status did not fit the definition in our society apparently.) He was familiar; I knew a lot about him. Many people had heard about him; what was he doing here, standing on this red welcome mat, ringing on my doorbell? Was he lost and wanted to ask for directions? No, then he would have sent one of the guys in black suits standing behind him forward. Why would he even be in this country, in my neighbourhood, in the middle of nowhere? Theoretically not 'nowhere', but I have learned people do not always like to be specific. They like to use phrases like this to exaggerate and to seem accommodated to society's forms of small-talk.

After I was finished with my first analysation I looked him directly into the eyes; they were green and vaguely familiar. I was not the only one thrown slightly out of my accustomed surroundings; he seemed to be stunned as well. My apologies, 'as well' was an incorrect formulation: I am never stunned. The man was shivering. I could not tell, if it was from nervousness or because of the snow, which was covering everything it could reach. Probably both. Was there a reason to be nervous?

He looked me up and down, as if he was taking me in. My stare did not waver; my composure was perfect. Embarrassingly, I was wearing a XL sized T-shirt, which used to belong to my grandmother, and underwear. Normally I prefer to present myself for the first time wearing more clothes. He did not seem to notice I was still in my sleeping attire.

This situation was absurd.

He smiled; dimples popping out. Dimples are caused by a shortening of a facial muscle. It is a genetic defect. If the procreators do not have dimples, it is highly unlikely the offspring will have them.

"Maeve! Who is here?? Let me see!" My ten years and three-hundred-and-thirty-one day old sister said in German, while trying to shove me away. How dare she touch me? I glared at her and Percy retracted her hands immediately.

Instead Percy took a look at the human being. Her mouth fell slightly open, her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose = shock. She knew who he was.

The male specimen opened his mouth to produce sounds only I will understand between my sister and me. "Is your last-name Fu-Fuchs?" He struggled with the German surname. I only nodded; it seemed obvious to me: There was a sign with the words "Familie Fuchs" written on it on the wall next to the door. It was directly on eye-level for average sized people and three degrees crooked to the left. He let out a breath of air; relief? "Thank god. May I c-come in?"

"If you stop stuttering." He mimicked Percy's face from before; I assumed it meant he was shocked.

In reply I strained the two Zygomaticus major and the two Zygomaticus minor muscles to draw the angles of my mouth upward, simultaneously using the muscle for the eyelid (Orbicularis Oculi) to close them a bit. The two Levator Lavii superioris raised the upper lip to show off my white teeth and the muscles called Risorius drew the angle of my mouth laterally. If I used those muscles the right way they will make me look like I am smiling.

I was not sure what his next contribution to our wordless conversation was (expressions were extremely interesting to decipher), because I had already turned around; knowing he would follow. He was here for a reason, so much was clear. He would not go away without at least trying to get what he wanted.

I stood in the middle of the entrance hall watching him give his bodyguards a sign to tell them he was going in (which was obvious) and take a step in our house. I quite liked this house. It was spacious and fitted my tastes of interior: structured chaos.

He took off his shoes, neatly setting them next to each other on the green carpet shaped to resemble a flower. (They did not do a good job). My brain was racing; searching for an explanation what a stranger could possibly want from us. A world famous stranger. My mother, who had been in the shower when the doorbell rang, stood in the frame of the bathroom door, holding a basket full of freshly washed clothes in one hand. Her hair, which was certainly wet, was hidden under a towel. She set the basket down on the light blue tiles as soon as she saw we had a visitor. She seemed confused as to why this person was standing in the foyer of our house. Then she gave me an accusing look. (I recognized it easily, I saw the expression often enough.) In return I just shrugged my shoulders; I did not have any plans for this guy. For once I was innocent: I had no idea why he was here.

Did she recognize him? I could not tell from her expression.

Nobody uttered a word and if I had known there would be an interesting person waiting behind the door, I'd have at least brushed my teeth before opening it. It angered me: I wanted to brush my teeth.

But before I could brush past her to get into the bathroom, my mother took hold of my upper-arm and hissed at me. (In German, of course.) "Don't even think about vanishing somewhere now. We don't speak a word in English, we need you to translate."

So she knew who he was, interesting.

Rolling my eyes at my family's stupidity, but secretly satisfied with them admitting they needed me, I gestured to the door leading into the living quarters. "Come on in." Everybody understood even with the poor English-knowledge of my family. We seated ourselves around the kitchen table. Without further ado the man started to talk.

"My name is Harry Styles and I'm really sorry for the disturbance this... early?" He let it sound like a question. "On a... on a-"

"Saturday" I said blankly. He grinned sheepishly before continuing. "Yeah right... sorry. I always forget what day it is. It's like they are flowing together at times... Thank you so much for letting me into your house with no explanation asked. I promise I'm here because of an important reason." He looked at me while talking. He may have figured out I was the only one capable of speaking English in this household. Although I was not sure if he did; most of the world's population were idiots.

I translated what he said perfectly, might I add. While I told my family the unnecessary information, he studied the house. Harry's eyes were full of wonder (?), almost as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "I'm here, because there is the possibility that- that eh... I belong to your family."

I thought about how he did not stop his stuttering like I told him to, when it finally registered what he had stated. My head shot up, my eyes searching for anything on his face that would tell me he was lying. What did he just say?

He fixed the pillow underneath him; he looked out of place. This was my place. No one rang on this doorbell and just appeared in my life without me approving of them first. Instead of translating I stood up and used my well-practiced apologetic smile. "I'm sorry we forgot, do you want anything to drink?"

Styles looked confused at my sudden change of topic. "What did he say, Maeve? Maeve!" My sister was curious. Her local accent a great contrast to Harry's British English. I looked at her for a second, then to my mother. Too many emotions to read so early.

"Mama, did you give birth to other children than us?"

Her body went rigid and her face was white as snow; probably not being able to comprehend what I said. After the first shock her shoulders started trembling as tears collected in her eyes. Sadness? Why was she crying? Should she not be happy, if this man was one of her own?

Maybe the cold from outside sneaked inside the house? Everything seemed to freeze. (Which is illogical, I am aware.) Or was that just my brain being too fast for the sense of my eyesight? My thoughts were racing. Thousands of theories about how this man ended up sitting in my dining room were formed and discarded in seconds.

I looked at Harry. "Coffee? Water?"

"Water is f-fine. Thanks." My knees were wobbling. Why?

Harry stood up quickly. I gave him a look; I was not going to do something as weak and unreasonable as faint, if that is what he thought. After a moment he sat back down. We all had arranged seats. Next to my seat sat mother, then there was a corner and there sat Percy. On my other side around the corner was currently Harry's seat. The table was formed like a triangle, the edges rounded.

I went into the kitchen and opened the self-made cupboard to take out a glass. (350 ml). Mother made those cupboards herself, they were slightly skew. Speaking of her, she was still crying, Percy was trying to comfort her. Mother was usually below average on the adult population's crying scale.

I turned the tap on and filled the glass up almost until the liquid flowed over. When I was finished I set the glass in front of the intruder without losing a single drop.

Mother watched his every move, analysing him through her now bloodshot eyes. Why had she never uttered a word about him? I had not put her in the category of people who would give their children away. Something about sentiment. Usually I was always right.

This had to be a mistake. Other people tended to make a lot of those. But then why would my mother be shedding tears?

I thought about the main information I had about Harry Styles. He was in a boyband, currently on a so called hiatus. He had a mother, a sister and a dead stepfather.

"Ask him when he was born." Mama ordered. I did not like it when someone used that tone with me. Swallowing my anger, I asked him.

"First of February, 1994," Harry answered. Mother nodded.

"Why do you think we are your family?" Mother said. "I don't want to give myself false hope. Maybe we aren't the ones who you're looking for." Hope? She hoped this man was saying the truth? Typical.

Acting bored I told him what she said. Eventhough I seemed agitated I had to admit that this could be interesting.

He took a deep breath. I have not yet seen an Interview in which he was as nervous. "There were a lot of coincidences leading to another, until I had to admit to myself something was wrong. I couldn't keep ignoring it. Some people were trying really hard to hide certain things from me. For example, there was always a problem with my birth certificate, I was never allowed to see it. My distant relatives never seemed to really accept me, always acting cold and sometimes even hostile in my presence. Not just as if I didn't belong to the family, more like I had done something horrible to them. But I have no clue what. And a lot of other little signs were there which I just ignored, but later on I felt dumb for overlooking them. But who would think their own flesh and blood wasn't who you thought they were since you were a baby?"

I silently agreed on him being dumb, no matter what context.

"Then there was this fan who had claimed to be my long lost brother. Maybe because of the situation fitting my doubt that I already had in my family, he and I did a DNA test. I didn't tell mum about it, because I knew she would have just tried to talk me out of it. At first it was just for fun, we did share some similarities, and I wanted to satisfy my inner demons doubting my own mother of being exactly that."

"To compare the results, we also took some DNA from my" -he held up two fingers in a sarcastic gesture- "real family. The hilarious thing was this guy shared more DNA with me than my mother. He wasn't really related to me though... but you know what I mean." I translated it into German without taking my eyes off him. I had heard about this rumour about him having a long lost brother, however I was not too invested in celebrity gossip.

He continued. "I confronted my 'mother' then. She was a crying mess." He sniffed. "She kept repeating that she doesn't know... she doesn't know." He shook his head. "But eventually she did know something. Apparently I was born as Luka Cariello." Mama took a sharp intake of breath. My father's name was Cariello, he was from the warmer and poorer regions of Europe.

"She refused to tell me more. My original birth certificate stated I was born in a small town in the middle of the continent. Together with a private detective I had hired I worked on finding hints of my heritage. It was fruitless: The hospital I was born in had been shut down, the name Cariello is relatively common in Italians, but most of the foreigners just work here and never change their citizenship, so they can return to their homes whenever; there were no traces of anybody named 'Cariello' living here and nobody seemed to be missing a kid called 'Luka Cariello' in this area twenty years ago. I was on the verge of giving up, I thought I was a just a regular orphan with both of my parents dead, when my private detective called. She told me she found out where you lived, that I had at least two sisters. I couldn't believe it. As soon as I was able to, I packed my bags and came here."

He looked lost: I was trying to categorize his frown and glassy eyes along with his hunched posture while carefully translating (and cutting half of the sentiment off) his story to Percy and my mother.

His private detective seemed suspicious. "How did your detective finally find out about us?"

I had not noticed that Percy had let go of mother and reached her hand out for Harry to take, while I was looking for loopholes in his statement. This was out of character for her: She was usually shy around strangers at first. Especially around tall, male strangers.

My question stayed unanswered.

He took her hand without hesitation; her darker skin complexion contrasting with his paler one. He slowly pulled her to him, giving her space at first. Then she hugged him. "My name is Percy." She mumbled in his shoulder with her broken prime-schooler English. He smiled in her hair; nearly the exact same shade as his. For once I had no idea what to say, so I let my mother hug me. Although I did not let the former stranger out of my eyes. I did not like it that he was holding my sister. I did not like it that he would probably try to hug me like that.

"But you have dimples."

"Pardon me?" He put his chin on top of Percy's head; he was easily comfortable around people.

"If the parents do not have them it is highly unlikely the children will. Mama, smile."

She did. Showing off perfect face muscles and no dimples. I lifted my eyebrows to indicate he should say something to his defence even though I had already decided he was wrong.

"What about the father?"

I had assumed he would have shared the same male counterpart of our creation. "Mama, do this Harry and I share the same father, if what he says is true?"

"Yes. Your father and I were married for 14 years. We split a year after you were born-"

"Yes, I know." I looked away from her and instead in the liar's eyes. "He also does not have dimples." I stood up and clasped my hands together. "This has been very enlightening. I will show you out. Please don't come visit us again-"

The star interrupted my fake politeness, also standing up after setting Percy aside. "Wait, wait. You can't just throw me out based on the fact that I have dimples. Percy, look at me. Can you smile for me, darling?"

Percy did not understand a word, but Harry bowed down to her height and showed her with a beaming smile what he wanted from her. She smiled back, of course. Traitor.

I already knew what he wanted to show me. I was mildly impressed by his observation skills. Mildly.

"There is a dimple in her left chin, yes. Her father does seem to have a slightly larger one on the same spot too. Excellent argument, but you shouldn't assume we are a perfect family with one father and one mother in the equitation."

His argument fell silent, mouth slightly hanging open.

"Maeve. Sit the fuck down and don't talk to your brother like that. I'm pretty sure, I would know my son, if I see him. If you are so unsure about him being part of this family, we can do a DNA test, too."

I was surprised by mothers understanding of our conversation and her raised voice. Maybe I underestimated her English knowledge a bit. I opened my mouth to retort she was letting a complete stranger in our lives, but she spoke before I could.

"I said sit down. I don't want to hear a word from you, until you can behave yourself."

Harry was still standing when I took a seat, silently imaging painful technics of killing my apparent brother. He could not just waltz in here and get the love of my (MY) family.

"They told me you were dead." Mother broke the silence. I knew she had had a failed pregnancy before I was born. Maybe she did not tell me the whole truth.

Mother looked at me, trying to tell me I should translate. Frowning I crossed my arms in front of my chest and turned my head to the side.

I wanted to make her angry. Make her feel my anger.

"Do you want to go back to the city next week, Maeve?" My eyes shot back to hers so fast that my sight had trouble keeping up.

"You want your independence?" Mother asked.

"You cannot do that. You know perfectly well I can go wherever I please whenever I want."

"Can you? Maybe. But it would be terribly inconvenient, if you would have to find a new flat there. And to find somebody else to pay for it, if you want to continue going to school." She shook her head in fake pity.

"You would not dare. You... you would not!"

"Wouldn't I?" She raised both her eyebrows in a challenging gesture. This creature. Since when did she know me so well?

Naturally, I could find a way to do the things I want. But it really would be tedious and a waste of afford. Hating that she had a better deck of cards than me in the moment I complied with her wishes with as much venom in my voice as I could fathom.

Styles' eyes were wide and confused after watching the exchange of words my mother and I had in our native language. His expression did not change even after I told him that he was thought dead for years.

We were disturbed by our cat climbing the fly screen outside our terrace door. The cat is only allowed out there, in the basement and in the house. If she wants to go inside, she waits in front of the terrace door. However, we were so distracted by our drama that we did not notice her. Gracefully I left my seat and opened the glass door to let her in. I did not let myself shiver because of the cold air hitting my bare legs.

"Good morning, Avocado." I greeted her, her ridiculous name almost making me smile. Avocado purred and rubbed her furry body against my calves. Instantly I took a step back. "We talked about this. No touching." The cat meowed. "No, you already had your daily ration of food and not surprisingly you can pressure mother and Percy in giving you more, but not me. You are on the verge of being obese." I sat back down, avoiding the cat still trying to woo me into giving it the food it so desperately wanted. 'Animals' I thought and rolled my eyes. Just eating money, good for nothing as a simple pet.

Mother continued speaking: "You were born on a rainy day. Your father and I didn't plan on having you, we hadn't been in a relationship that long. It was a really hard time for us, but I wouldn't give you up. You were born three weeks too early. You really wanted to see the world." There was a smile on her tear stained face, a smile I never got anymore. "We were in the city, searching for a potential restaurant for your dad, when all of a sudden you wanted to get out." Her features grew stony again. "I can't remember how we got there, but we were in a hospital. I was there for days, there were a lot of complications. I don't have much memories of these events, I was in so much pain. When you finally 'saw' the light of the earth, I didn't hear you scream. I was concerned, but dizzy. I blacked out, when I woke up a nurse came up to me. She was apologizing the whole time: Sh-she said you were d-dead."

Silence. Not even I said anything after translating. Harry's eyes were wide open and shined with tears. Why did he have to share the same amount of melanin in his eyes as my mother and me, making his eyes appear the same colour as ours?

Harry had taken a seat again, while mother was talking. Said person leaned forward and took the man's hand in theirs.

"But how could he be here now?" My sisters voice was serious. She had a tendency of always joking and being way too overactive; serious is not something I would have described her with. But this morning was definitely out of the ordinary.

Mother's quiet 'no idea' mixed with the thoughts in our head. Our house made out of wood was big, but in this moment nobody fit. Our minds took up all the space.

And the world went on, while in a small village in the mountains in a snow covered red house a family met for the first time. And nobody knew but them and the cat.


	4. River

I closed the wooden interior door behind me, leaning against the wall next to it. Memories flashed in front of my eyes, pictures in the highest quality possible for human eyesight impairing the reality. The calendar next to my head crashed to the ground; I tried pinning it back on the plain wall. It did not work; I could not see much.

Nothing but a big crinkly smile, warm eyes and eyebrows I distinctly remember Peter Pan having. Tan skin, dark hair with strands of grey, soft and well smelling hands.

All I could think of was how similar they were in some ways; how they acted. Was it possible to inherit parts of someone's character without ever having met them? I had to do a thorough research to broaden my knowledge on DNA.

I could make out voices downstairs, people talking. My hands were trembling unquestionably. Why was I reacting this way?

Ludicrous emotions, go away.

I walked over to my bed, sitting down carefully. I took hold of the cold bed-frame, arms shaking from the force I was gripping the lacquered wood. Otherwise I sat completely still, my back ramrod straight, staring into the mirror hanging opposite myself.

The room I was so seldom in held nothing but fake memories. Reminding me of a time I acted like an average human being. Disgusting.

In the bottom right corner of the mirror was a picture stuck between the reflecting glass and its frame. Put there from somebody playing a role that did not fit them.

The photo showed a man clad in a light pink shirt, hands clasped together on the table in front of him. He was smiling, born for being photographed. I had to close my eyes for a reason I had no desire in leading my mind to. Again.

Forcing my eyes to open again, the names of the muscles I was using for that action listing in front of my eyes. I shook my head, trying to get back into my normal head space. Logic only allowed.

In my peripheral vision I saw a spot of off-white and orange, mixed with a black which looked more brown than charcoal from age. Anger clouded my vision this time, other things pushed behind an enormous brick wall in my mind. How dare she?!

Percy (I was certain) had taken my stuffed animal today and did not put it back in its correct place. I crawled over the duvet to take it and place it to its rightful spot: on top of my pillow.

I detested it when people touched my belongings. I had to teach her a lesson, but first I had to put this Harry person in their place.

Hesitating in letting the thing, which I only valued because it was my property, go I had the sudden urge to pull it closer and wrap my hands around myself; pressing the cotton and polyester animal in the progress against my chest.

But before I could succumb to such an unreasonable action the bedroom door flew open, clashing against the wall. The calendar, which was on the ground since my failed attempt in picking it back up, now crumpled between the light brown wood of the door and the floor strip, made from the same kind of wood but not the same tree.

In the process of putting the stuffed animal back, I had moved to the left side of the bed. From there a wall blocked my view to the entrance. Half of the currently open door was visible. This room was exactly seventeen point twenty-four square-meters big. I preferred to have the bed in a secure corner. By entering the room, one has to take three and a half (probably slightly smaller than average, if I take my height into the equitation) steps to arrive at the right (from my current position) bedside.

I looked over my right shoulder into the reflection of the TV (standard issue in the 2000th), which was positioned on an Ikea regal ('Lalena') at the foot of the bed. In it I could make out a small figure with dark hair. Percy.

"May, can you help me- Hey, what's the matter?" She stood in-between my great wooden closet, which mother got as a present when the house had been built, and my bed. Percy had always (this is an overstatement; since she was capable of doing so is the meaning) been the trouble-maker in this household. While mother often kept on insisting otherwise, I saw the real damage she causes (not I).

Percy had certain problems with speaking and understanding others. So to compensate, I presume, she was constantly loud (both vocally and non-vocally) and seeking attention. At times I imagined her standing at the bottom of a well, straining to hear us and having to yell to be noticed, but nobody answering beside her own echo.

Emotions, however, were something that came naturally to her. She did not have to think about which degree the mouth turns up to indicate what the owner of said mouth feels. She just knew.

Instead of answering the useless inquiry I drew my eyebrows together to glare at her. "I am positive I have told you on numerous occasions to refrain from addressing me with that-" embarrassingly I had to pause to search for a correct term "-nickname. Why do you keep on ignoring this particular request?"

"Stop harassing her. She is nothing but nice to you and you look down on her as if she was someone not worthy of your oh so great company."

Surprisingly I had not registered his looming figure behind Percy before, too focused on Percy invading my space. The man was giving me a stern look, making him look even older. Apparently he did not have to understand German to be able to gather what was being said.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"But the highest form of intelligence." Harry replied, evidently familiar with Oscar Wilde or at least this quote of his. I scoffed, knowing most of the people using sarcasm are not considered vastly intelligent (not including myself, obviously).

Gingerly (to not disrupt the ordines of my sheets) I lifted my body from a sitting position and stood straight. I opened the closet. Positioning the closet door so the light coming from the entrance would reflect on the mirror, blending the intruder.

While choosing some clothes I noticed from the corner of my eye that Harry leaned a bit to the side when standing upright (slight pigeon feet). I replaced the dark shirt I was wearing for the night with a dress. Simply because it influenced others in believing I am a well behaved innocent and foolish teenager. Although I am anything but foolish.

To put on a pantyhose, I sat back down on the bed, puzzling over his current emotional state. I was ninety-seven percent sure he felt unsure (possibly about my ignorance of his presence; it was seen unusual in our society to undress in front of other people who are not your sexual partners or have a close relationship with you, furthermore if you did not share the same sex) and scared. Definitely scared, although he tried to mask it with concern for Percy's wellbeing. Which was obviously not needed, she could handle that. She could handle me (as if I was a difficult person to handle).

I like to think he was scared of me. I can make use of that.

"Percy is obviously here to bother me with you. And no, I am not going to show you around the house, you would have to be an even bigger fool than I thought, if you cannot find yourself around a 144 square-metre house." Something like disappointment was written over Percy's face. I walked over to the pair standing in the doorway averting my eyes from my half-sister. 'No' was in her tiny English vocabulary included.

"But if I did assume something wrong, which does happen sometimes, I am deeply sorry." I used the accurate expression, not sarcastic in the slightest. I had been told more often than not that this seemed to 'creep people out'. Harry forgot to feign not being unsettled by me.

"This is MY room." Turning on the spot I gestured around me to emphasise my point. "I apologize for the messiness; I was not aware somebody was going to see it." Acting as if small-talk was something I did. I laughed, Harry frowned.

"While we are at it-" I stepped through my bedroom door in the hallway, forcing them to take a few steps back and relocate in the hallway with me. "This is MY hallway with MY carpet and-" I walked over to gesture to a door. "MY bathroom with MY shower-stall and MY bathtub-" I let the smile fade and turned 50 degrees to face Styles, "and MY HOUSE. So what are you doing here without MY permission?!"

"Why do you hate me so much?"

This remark of his' made me halt in my action of shooing him away. I looked him directly in the eyes; a tad confused. "Who is talking about hate?"

"Well you really seem to hate me. For whatever reason. Do you hate 'One Direction'? Or is it my nose?" He gestured at his nasus.

"I am sure your nasal organ is perfectly well of sustaining you with air and what would that have to do with me? I do not care if you would have enough air to survive or not."

"Maeve. I'm not trying to invade your space. I am your brother now... you can trust me." He stretched a hand out, as if he was wishing to touch me. I took a step aside before he could do so.

"Trust is not a part of blood. Do not talk to me." I closed my bedroom door in front of them after having walked over there again.

*

The room was dark. The only light sources were the occasional car driving by and the street lamp in front of the house, which's light was slightly hindered by the weeping willow between it and this building. I had been sitting on the mattress for hours without noticing how much time had gone by.

Just when I was about to stand up and leave the room, my mobile phone lightened up the whole room. A New Notification. Harry Styles tweeted something. Click to open. Enter Password.

"Almost Home."

it said. The simple tweet already had thousands of retweets and likes. I could not help but appreciate the formulation, beside the sentiment clinging to the word 'Home'. It was a logical statement about his location and before long his 'fans' were making up hundreds of theories about what he is indicating. I raised my eyebrows at a particular unrealistical assumption. Did this person really think that? I shut off my phone, not wanting to waste more time with such brain numbing words. They would not know what he is talking about; they could just guess. Nobody but me (and a few others) knew what he was on about.

People may assume he was being poetic, but he really was not. He had just outed a fact. (A fact for him at least.) The reason it said 'Almost' was unsophisticated: He was only two houses away. I knew this, because of the commotion downstairs earlier. The bodyguards had wanted for Harry to go for the night. Mother, who had most definitely taken a liking to having a son, did not want to part with him so soon. I could not understand what was being said, but I was sure she had used her most icy tone, in vain. The men had apparently some power over Harry (interesting). We did not have a hotel in our village, but we did have a lot of rooms to rent for vacations. There were quite a few tourists here to go skiing during the winter or hiking in the summer months. One of those families offering rooms were two houses down the hill. Normally every room would be occupied, but the parents with two kids, who were renting the rooms at the moment, were from a certain region in Germany were school starts on Monday. (I had a brief interaction with them a few days ago, determining their accent was easy enough.) Today being Saturday it would seem they would have enough time to return, but they had left yesterday to get home before the announced storm. This left two rooms empty. Mother would insist for Harry and his babysitters to retire there, no matter what. The tweet had just confirmed it.

Instead of going out, like I intended to do previously, I got a glass of water and put on my pyjamas. (Putting clothes on today had not been necessary.) Harry had implied it sometimes felt like his days are flowing together. He had no idea, I thought when I swallowed my pills and threw my head back into my pillow. Forcing my eyes closed I fought against the stream of pictures until I fell into unconsciousness.

And it felt like losing to float down the river again.


	5. Window

Up and down, up and down. The light of the dull sky reflecting in her once black eyes made them seem colourless, dead. If it were not for the constant moving of said organ, at last. Grandmother stood frozen in front of her house about to put out a cigarette. She was studying her apparent grandson intensely. Up and down, up and up and up and- oh. She was fainting.

I should have seen this coming sooner, should have realized it as soon as she stopped breathing. But I had not ever considered grandmother doing something as human as losing conscience. Too many surprises these days.

I watched mother run to her side and just barely being fast enough to soften her fall. Harry kneeled next to mother on the ground, but did not seem to know what to do. Percy stood next to me; in most out-of-the-order situations she tended to imitate my reactions. Smart girl. Sometimes, I mean.

Her daughter was caressing grandmothers wrinkly but soft cheek, while calling her name in a low voice. "Mimi, Mimi!" Not her real name, of course. I had never cared to ask why grandmothers children referred to her as "Mimi" instead of "Mama" as it was traditional in this region. It probably had an awfully sentimental reason.

"As if that will help." I announced while bowing down to pick up the cigarette butt, which lay discarded next to grandmother's pinkie. I stepped over her body, threw the fag into the ashtray and took the cigarette package sitting next to it. Mother turned her head only when she heard the click of a lighter being used. A sound she was very familiar with.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" Ignoring her I inhaled the smoke of the cigarette and went back to the body lying on the ground. Percy just stared at me in pure horror, I deciphered. It was the same expression she wore as an exactly three-year-old when she saw her biological father engage in coitus with a woman unknown to her. It was his secretary. Cliché.

While holding grandmother's wrist, I secretly took her pulse (nobody had to know) and blew the smoke directly in her face. Her colourless eyes instantly blinked back at mine.

"Give me the damn cigarette, young lady." Were her first words back online.

"When you stop being dramatic." I stood back up, perfectly straight. "Dramatic?" Asked Harry, whom I had completely disregarded. I took another drag. "She had been awake for almost a minute now, but basked in the attention. She would not have opened her eyes until she got a bit more attention."

I knew it could not have been something life endangering, her heart was beating 80 times per minute, which was a normal heart rate. Other than that I had noticed, her eyes were flattering a bit, which she did not do at first. I would have believed it, if someone told me she was faking the whole thing. She was the type for those kind of jokes. Her eyes were the sign, that she really had been unconscious. Even if it was not for long.

The windows to the soul, she had once told me. They always tell the truth.

"Hello to you too, ever-so-caring-Maeve." Grandmother grinned and held her hand out for the cigarette. I gave it to her.

Instead of being affronted by the revelation, the fake grandson reached his hand out for her, bowing a little down in the process. "May I help?" Polite. English.

Grandmother nodded. Slowly he pushed his hands under both her armpits and with mother's help she was on her own feet again.

Mother who I had been tuning out the whole time: "If you ever touch a cigarette again... blah."

"Let's go inside, shall we?" Grandmother was smiling, as if nothing had happened. She threw the half-finished cigarette on the icy ground, the tip instantly burning out.

*

"Thanks." Grandmother said when mother sat down her cup of coffee on the table. She did not even bother looking at her, too focused on Harry.

Speaking of whom, he seemed to be on the verge of fainting from nervousness (frequently changing his sitting position, right leg jumping up and down, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jean clad thighs, et cetera...).

This time I was one-hundred percent sure he was nervous. Not just because he was indicating it with every fibre of his being, but because there had been more than a dozen people suffering under fecal incontinence as soon as grandmother's gaze fell on them.

She was by far not as weak as she may seem now after fainting. Her brain was still as brilliant as it was when she was younger. Her fierce eyes that accompanied her sharp mind were not easy to handle. Excluding for me, of course.

We were sitting in the kitchen of the two storey brick house, in which my mother lived until she was sixteen, along with her two younger siblings. In a corner of said kitchen was the dining table, around it (built into the wall) were benches covered with carpets   
woven by grandmother herself.

The rough carpet I was sitting on mixed with the smell of filter coffee and grandmothers deep voice made me feel like a child. How much time did my sister and I spend here? I started calculating, to answer my question, but I was interrupted.

"Mimi" set her coffee-cup down very suddenly, making them all jump. Not me.

"You have to learn German. I want to have an extensive conversation with my grandson before I die." Further proving her point in Harry needing to be able to speak our mother tongue, I reluctantly translated her statement.

Harry flinched at the mention of her death, squinting his eyes as if in pain. I think it was because of that, but it could have been possible, he had hit his knee on the underside of the white lacquered wood table. No, I would have noticed the vibration of the table or the soft sound. Internal pain was it then.

I was not fazed at all about the talk of her decaying. She was old and her body was far from healthy: slightly overweight, heavy smoker (only 34 percent of her lungs still functioned), 7 vertebras already broke down, left hip was cemented, nerve illness, et cetera...

She often talked about her death in a joking manner. That was what I really appreciated about her: Her logical thinking without the sentiment sticking to every sentence. I think it is also referred to as "black humour".

The only man in the room nodded. Concentrated, as if he was trying to search for something in his (untrained) brain, he spoke slowly: "Ich bin Harry und komme aus England." (I'm Harry and I'm from England.)

My sister started laughing, highly amused by Harry's pronunciation and accent. Mother shushed her, but could not stop the smile forming on her lips. Percy's laugh automatically made most people laugh with her. Grandmother always said it was her gift, making everyone content with laughter. Mother looked proud while looking at her son, content. Her son. Not.

I did not like this situation at all, I had to escape.

Taking a deep breath, I thought about the mother that just lost her kid. I thought about the grandmothers who must have been so happy when they heard about a new grandson. I thought about the sister who was not a sister anymore.

Must be tragic for them. They could have him back as soon as they asked, if this went my way.

Instead of excusing myself politely from the table, I stood up on the bench (with my shoes still on) and stepped over Percy sitting on the right side of mine and opened without a word the kitchen door. Nobody seemed to care.

But then: "Maeve!" I ignored grandmother's voice and was just about to close the door when she said the only thing that could have stopped me.

"Does he know about F-?"

I screamed. "Do not dare to finish this sentence! We will talk later; this is way too sensitive information for now." Or for ever.

Behind the brown door with a yellow glass ebbed into the wood was a big room. If you looked up, you could see the roof from the bottom. The staircase which led up to the second floor was handmade with extreme precision. Grandmother was not rich, far from it, but she had had her contacts. When the house was built, mother, who was the eldest of three children, had been eight. Her father along with his colleagues did most of the work for this house.

When I was still a toddler I used to sleep over at grandmothers a lot. Mother had had to work most of the time and Percy had not existed yet. As lovely as the dark wood and the enormous entrance room with the big chandelier may look to some people now, for me it transitioned to a very unpleasant place in the dark. I hated to be in the unknown and darkness had been just that for me. It did not help that raindrops on the metal-roof sounded like footsteps and the wind rushing through broken windows reminded one of desperate knocking. Back then I did not know how to rule out such irrational thoughts.

Shaking my head, I made my way up the stairs, thinking about how I always hid myself there to wait, concealed by the stair railing and the coat hanger. When someone would finally walk by I would scream bloody murder. Grandmother almost had a heart attack once, so my close relatives eventually made me stop that behaviour (with a good bit of bribing). Although I had loved to watch the reactions of the adults I scared. So interesting.

Arriving at the top of the stairs I looked at the mirror hanging opposite the door, which led into the bathroom. I had changed a lot since the last time I looked into that mirror. I smiled at my reflection, but somehow I still seemed empty. The eyes, it is always the eyes who could betray one's true nature.

Maybe everything would get better, now that Harry was here? Who am I trying to deceive? He will not stay, if I am still in the picture.

After finishing my business, I washed my hands in the bathroom downstairs. There was a sink upstairs, but it was in one of the bedrooms and there was hardly ever soap there.

Back in the kitchen Harry held my mobile out to me, stating that somebody had been trying to reach me and it seemed urgent from the number of the times the phone rang. I snatched it out of his grip. I had mentioned before I did not like it when someone touched my belongings. Looking at the caller ID of the missed calls I left the kitchen again, already pressing the button to call back.

"Simba?" I asked as soon as the call went through. The only thing I could make out was heavy breathing and a lot of muffled voices in the background. He was at a party. I looked at the clock on my phone: 3:16 PM. Not the usual time of these events. "Simba? Everything alright?" Still no remarkable response. Then some rustling on the other side and someone yelled, muffled by the distance.

"Give me the phone! Give me the phone, man!" The somebody seemed to get what he wanted and screams, presumable in the same volume as prior.

"Maeve!" My ears stung unpleasantly, caused by the suddenness of the loud noise. I scrunched my nose up in distaste, displeased in having forgotten to pull the phone away in time.

"What's the matter, Simba?" I sounded worried, which was my intention. Simba did not matter to me, never did.

"I just saw a fly, oh there is another one!" Was his answer, followed by a monologue about various songs, the lyrics all mixed together. Sometimes he would hum along, he was not directing it at anyone. He just felt like doing it, I knew. That boy's mind could never stay at one place, even if he was sober. Which he certainly was not.

I quietly listened, listing everything he said and noticing his music taste had changed a bit. He probably met some new people at the house parties he is always at. Even if he would never admit it (I was not sure he knew), he felt more comfortable in telling me things. He did not feel judged. Oh, how you could be fooled sometimes.

Then there was a change of noise: Someone else got hold of the phone. "May? Sorry, man. He wouldn't shut up about wanting to talk to you." The guy laughed about something, probably Simba. "You know how he gets."

"Yes." I definitely did. Simba sometimes wants your attention for anything in the world and then he would not want to hear you even talk for days or weeks. No hard feelings.

You can see why I was his best friend. I did not have feelings, so it did not bother me.

The guy on the line was one of Simba's friends. I never got his name right, or I simply did not care enough to memorize it (not that that would be a lot of work).

"It is alright. Make him drink a glass of water, not more than two. That would make him throw up. He is on MDMA, right?" After a sound which sounded like 'no' I continued. "And Speed? Aha. Bring him home. In his bedroom at his dad's under the floorboard next to the standard lamp is a box. In it you will find some weed to build him a joint. It will calm him down. After that you can give him more water, he will be totally dehydrated. I cannot do that right now. I am not in the city." I hung up after he agreed and I was left wondering.

Why did I even bother? I had to have patience. Patience, Maeve!

*

Hevea brasiliensis was the Latin termini for the Para rubber tree, behind which I was elegantly curled together like a big cat in a comfortable armchair. The two rubber trees hiding me from view where accompanied by 35 other plant sorts in our conservatory. The winter garden was built nine years after we moved into the house.

Because of my preferred thinking position, my right hand was hanging from the beige chair, under which hundreds of documents, pieces of paper, photographs and other little trinkets like train tickets lay scattered around.

The snowstorm, because of which the previous inhabitants of the holiday rooms had fled, was raging outside. My eyes were closed, but I did not need to open them. I could hear the wind perfectly well and it did not seem like it would slow down anytime soon. Other than that, using the muscle to open up my eyelids would have been completely useless. The locks on my head were covering my face and taking away my eyesight. The solution to this problem would have been easy enough.

Move.

But this would have needed effort. Instead I stayed the way I was and waited for Avocado to get hungry, which was usually around 5:00 to 5:30 PM. Because if it was hungry, the cat would annoy mother until she stands up from the couch, goes to the kitchen, opens the drawer on the right hand side under the window with the broken blinds, take the feline food with a blue children's cup and carry it into the winter-garden, where I am currently located, to fill up Avocados pet bowl. Furthermore, mother would stroke Avocados back one time, wish her "Bon Appetite!" and turn around to go back into the living room, resulting in her spotting me.

As soon as she notices me she would halt in her movements and take a moment to look at her oldest daughter. The only family member who did not know how to be exactly just that. The one who only cared for herself.

Then the sentiment would get the best of her and she would carefully tiptoe over the things littering the carpet and caress my cheek, resulting in my hair being removed from blocking my sight.

But mother did not stand up from the sofa and feed Avocado. She did not even watch television as I had assumed. I was so used to her routine I did not even listen if the TV was turned on. It was not.

I moved my head, despite not having wanted to do just that.

Silence.

And then. SCREAMS.

Instantly I was out of my seat, then I waited. If there was a murderer in the house I had the best chance to flee now and hope he would kill Harry.

Nothing again. I was too curious now to open the windows and run. I would rather fight.

I heard faint sobs. Following the muffled noises, I halted in front of the basement door. Normally it was always closed, but now it was a finger-width opened. I stored the fact in the back of my mind and ascended down the creaking wooden stairs to the cellar.

Reaching the bottom an icy gust of wind hit me. I refused to wrap my arms around myself, instead I held them up in a fight ready position. Passing through another set of doors I stopped in fascination.

The exit door on the other side of the room was wide open, snow invading the basement. The moisture was probably hell for the wooden floor. Mother stood like a statue in midst of the mess with an unlit cigarette in her hand, her sobs were the only thing telling me she was not made of stone. She was probably on her way to smoke one in her secret spot, outside the cellar exit door. I had the urge to draw the whole scene, but I was fine with taking a mental picture for the time being. I could do that later.

I looked at all the red decorating the walls.

Plasma, platelets, red and white blood cells. Combined they create the substance, which keeps us alive. Blood. This life sustaining liquid was on every cement wall of the room. In the middle by mother's feet was the cadaver of something I had trouble to decipher at first.

Avocado?


End file.
